


The Stolen Seed Job

by Arithanas



Series: A Huckleberry Above My Persimmon [6]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Abduction, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Parenting, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Literal semen theft, M/M, Nazis, utterly selfindulgent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: Eliot got his summer vacation spoiled, Quinn disappeared from the face of the Earth and, somehow, this was just the beginning of their brush with some secret nazis. Can this relationship survive?
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Series: A Huckleberry Above My Persimmon [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607185
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

The sun rose early that morning of late May in Portland, but Eliot Spencer had been up and about for three hours before the first warm rays of sunshine caressed his back. Insomnia had nothing to do with it this time. Eliot put the blame squarely on his excitement.

Eliot smiled and picked up his shears, a fine tremor dancing on his fingertips… Years had passed since the last time he'd felt his gut heavy and warm as a cat sleeping on his midriff and bubbling like tap beer at the same time. All in all, a very pleasant sensation. Pinching off tomato suckers was excessive at this point—Quinn wouldn’t notice his neat trimming even if his life depended on it—but he had to keep his hands from toying with his phone.

Twelve hours ago, Quinn texted that he had to take care of a brief job in DC before flying to Portland. Eliot, eager as a teased colt, couldn’t wait to drive Quinn home and have him itemize and review each of Eliot’s possessions with acrid humor. One couldn't ask the sun not to shine and one couldn't ask a hitter whose specialty is blackmail to never roast your stuff. Eliot’s ego was sturdy enough to withstand the inspection. 

At least his bed was big enough for two burly men... In preparation for their month together, Eliot had changed his spartan single for a new queen size, and his new bed linens—washed with vinegar and baking soda—were flapping on the early morning breeze. The planned inaugural voyage stirred all kinds of passions inside Eliot’s brain.

They had made plans, big plans… Eliot debated once more if a year and a half of dirty sex on mercenary beds warranted dragging Quinn to Oklahoma to sit him at Uncle Randy’s table. That old man’s opinion about the issue mattered the whole world to Eliot.

The phone vibrated inside his pocket and Eliot’s flesh got goosebumps immediately. By now, his brain drowned on happy chemicals each time the phone signaled Quinn’s pattern. Without any hurry, Eliot took out his gardening gloves and retrieved the device.

“Let’s see…” Eliot mumbled and opened the chat app.

Eliot squinted when the screen glared under the morning sun. The message didn’t contain one of Quinn’s taunting, flirting texts, or even a flight number but a photo. A photo of a legal document, white paper, and fancy seal. Eliot zoomed in on the picture; the legend “Marriage Certificate” at the head of the paper and “Jonah Quinn IV” in the groom’s name line. A very familiar hand—a strong hand, one that used to hold Eliot’s—with a shining golden ring that looked a lot like a wedding band held the paper against a glossy walnut desk.

Eliot closed his eyes, a new weight on his belly. The weight was growing so fast that it strained Eliot’s core. The muscles of Eliot’s back were tingling, his hands betrayed a different tremor and Eliot pocketed his phone before he dropped it on the dirt. 

A huge dry sob left his chest. Eliot tossed his head back and let the sun caress his face. Five minutes of meditation would take the edge off the news... 

After a while, Eliot realized he needed to call Hardison and tell him his vacation got canceled. His bed needed to be made. Then he could season the bacon and let it rest before he could smoke it. Then he would maybe turn his compost barrel before it got too hot because his tomato plants would need mulch soon. Some weather analyst on the radio forecasted a heatwave, maybe he could put some round rocks to trap humidity inside the garden bed. The cucumbers could use a bit of love…

Eliot closed his eyes and willed himself to find more chores. Anything to get himself to stop thinking about that awful image.
    
    
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“I have a question about the menu, please,” Hardison said, putting a copy of their Fourth of July specials on the bar between the room and the kitchen.

“The men I please are none of your damn business!” Eliot replied without taking his eyes from the tomatoes he had been dicing.

“Hey, man. You OK?”

Eliot put the knife down and looked at Hardison’s face. There was concern where Eliot expected to see puzzled amusement.

 _No, I’m not OK_ , Eliot felt the urge to say. _My phone has been dead for a month except for those times when you want me to do something. No more happy thrills for me. I’m not OK and I feel a little less OK every time I try to live my life and Quinn’s luggage greets me by the back door. No, I don’t know why I haven’t tossed that expensive suitcase into the dumpster. I want to believe he's gonna reclaim it and then we'll talk and fix this clusterfuck. I’m scared of what I'd do if there is nothing else to link me to Quinn_.

“I…” Eliot mumbled and he felt his scowl deepening so hard it almost hurt.

 _I’m hurting! It’s not the first time someone has dumped me_ , Eliot almost mumbled and his lips twisted and his hand raised. _But this is the first time I didn’t get even the tritest 'It’s not you, it’s me’. It hurts, Hardison! My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe!_ Eliot closed his fist as if it would do any good. _I can’t be inside my own home. Walls begin closing on me as soon as I close the front door. I've spent these last weeks sleeping with the first man that offers me a fuck and a strange bed because I can’t sleep in that big fucking bed!_ Eliot lowered his fist and tapped it twice against the counter.

“Hey, bro…” Hardison moved to the inside of the kitchen.

 _To top it all off, the fourth of July is looming over us_. Eliot shook his head and let it hang. _And I’m going raving mad because I was supposed to spend it by the river next to Quinn. I can’t stop thinking about it. I miss his idiotic grin and the way he tilts his head and his sharp tongue. I miss him!_

“I haven’t slept well…” Eliot finally said and stood tall again. “What’s your question?”

“You took the Hawaiian burgers off the menu.”

“Because I don’t have the time nor the inclination to bake seed kaiser rolls every morning or to whip Teriyaki-mayonnaise sauce at the drop of the hat.” Eliot placed his paring knife in the sink and leaned on it. “That’s if we don’t take into account I would need to mix all the beef for the patties again.”

“Just toss some pineapple on it and honor our 50th state!”

“Of course!” Eliot almost spat and crossed his arms. “Just fax me the instructions!”

Hardison let out a very offended and high-pitched sound that almost extracted a smile from Eliot. The way Hardison pressed his open hand against his chest and the positive outrage in his face was a breath of fresh air in the ocean in which he had been drowning.

It couldn’t last, Eliot knew it. He had way too many crimes to pay for: his phone vibrated in his pocket. 

A quick glance at the screen told him the call was important because the country code was one he didn't expect to see. A torrent of Czech words followed his curt greeting and Eliot felt the hair on his arms stand on end. He knew that voice, he could see the person speaking on the other side of the line (tall, brunet, bearded, so beddable). He could see the reception desk and the light pouring from the left. Quinn’s apartment concierge was calling Eliot and those kinds of calls made Eliot uneasy, to say the least.

“ _Nemluvím česky_ ,” Eliot mumbled the first Czech sentence Quinn had taught him, feeling the language pressing his tongue down.

Hardison watched the exchange with a massive question painted in his face, but Eliot didn’t have the time or the sense to explain the situation. Eliot only knew that this didn’t bode well for Quinn and fear sat over his solar plexus like a rock. Without addressing his friend’s concern, Eliot passed by Hardison as the person on the other side of the line apologized in heavily accented English. Eliot could feel the regressive assimilation of his consonants—just like Quinn’s—like a caress, but he held the wave of nostalgia at bay as he walked to the front door.

“I have been trying to reach Antonín for a week, but he doesn’t answer his phone,” the concierge explained in English now that Eliot had made clear he didn’t know Czech. “Yours is the only other number we have in our register.”

“No problem…” Eliot fished for the man's name with some difficulty. His mind was doing cartwheels like a hamster on cocaine and he had even struggled with the door. “Dalimil. What can I do for you?”

“Antonín has been paying for our reinforced security system. You must remember it.”

Eliot’s heart twisted inside his chest and he took a long stride to grip the rail. Quinn’s floor was high security, requiring someone to type the unit number and three different passwords (one for the reception, one for the lift, and one for his door) to access it. Eliot even joked Quinn was trying to keep him prisoner ( _all the better to ravage you!_ Quinn replied as he let that maddening slow smile of his bloom).

“I do,” Eliot confirmed and rested his weight against the decorative fence.

“Antonín’s password had been pinging errors from the garage for the last week.” Dalimil made a pause to let the information sink. When Eliot didn’t comment, he added: “Someone had been trying to break into our security in a black van with tinted windows. Do you have any idea of how to contact Antonín?” 

Eliot closed his eyes and answered the question that the Czech concierge asked before assuring him he would try his best to inform Quinn. All systems must remain in place, and did they have an upgrade? Because Eliot would like to pay for an upgrade…

People passed around him and Eliot, finalizing his call, wondered how they managed not to notice the turmoil roaring through him. Eliot sighed and called Quinn’s number. The phone didn’t even ring, going directly to voicemail. Eliot heard the message and his brow furrowed. The voice belonged to the service provider’s robot instead of Quinn’s personalized message. 

Eliot sat at one of the external tables and sorted his options. It wasn't hard to do, he didn’t have that many to choose from. Quinn’s phone was nonoperational, meaning there wasn't much Hardison could do. With closed eyes, Eliot dialed a very long number and got ready to sell his soul to Satan’s vicar on Earth.

“Get me Vance,” Eliot barked to the person who picked up the call. 
    
    
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Eliot felt the pleasant warmth of a good dinner weighing in his belly and let his eyes roam Quinn’s favorite spot in the whole apartment; black couch, facing the glass wall that overlooked the river. Quinn didn’t need to say that in so many words, the wear and tear of the upholstery of the big couch, sandwiched by custom-made bookcases, was pretty telling. 

Eliot had never seen a bookcase capable of hiding a flatscreen as huge as Quinn’s; they had spent many nights watching movies, cuddled on that couch, wrapped in the white and red Ukrainian pattern blanket that Quinn used for a throw. The shelves—the only spot in the whole apartment that didn’t look like it came straight out of a catalog—were half-filled with samples of Central European folk crafts: embroidered Hungarian tablecloths, Kholuy miniatures, colorful Polish cut-outs, Slovak corn husk dolls, Latvian woven baskets, Khokhloma vases, Belarus straw figurines, Bulgarian trinket boxes, a veritable battalion of colorful Easter eggs... Eliot always got a little lightheaded because his brain often short-circuited with the clutter. This time, he had to stop his inspection when his eyes fell on a Pomor dove hung from the inside of the tallest shelf next to a pair of Serbian shoes. 

Eliot looked over his shoulder, checking that Quinn was still washing the dishes. As if it was a mischievous act, Eliot touched the small Polish blue-and-white pottery stretching cat that was the centerpiece of the shelf at his eye level. This one-inch tall figurine extracted such a delighted squeal from Quinn that still brought a smile to Eliot’s face. His smile got larger when he remembered the weight of Quinn’s head on his shoulder as he slept all the way from Krakow cradling his treasure between his cupped hands. With the memory of that moment, Eliot lit up the Bosnian pendant lamps hanging over the couch. 

With the soft clink of dishes as background and the warm light over his head, Eliot dialed Hardison’s number and chatted with his team for a minute to let them know he was fine.

“Send them my New Year best wishes,” Quinn shouted from the kitchen, drying up the Bohemian red wine glasses they had used at dinner. Eliot could tell Quinn was planning to make memories with those glasses.

“Quinn says ’Happy New Year’,” Eliot said to Hardison and Parker before hanging up. He turned to Quinn. “Are you going to call your family?”

“My parents are not expecting a holiday greeting call from me.”

“My father doesn’t even speak to me.”

“We have that in common,” Quinn said, filling the wine glasses again. “I don’t even know if my mother is still alive!”

“I know mine ain’t,” Eliot mumbled and, not for the first time, remembered he needed to find a way to lay her to rest next to his grandpa. Dad really didn’t care or respect her wishes. “Sore story?”

Quinn shrugged, turned off the lights, and extended Eliot a glass with that bubbly German wine. Eliot took it, clinked Quinn’s glass, and put it gently on the coaster.

“My mother wanted a career more than she wanted a child; my father wanted a child more than he wanted a successful wife.” Quinn sat next to Eliot and paused to sip his wine. “By the time I was of school age, I was just another item to tick off their moving list,” Quinn said and moved Eliot’s arm over his shoulder. “I know it sounds hipster-ish, but I was a free-range kid before those were cool.”

Eliot closed his fingers over Quinn’s shoulder and pulled him closer. 

“By the time University kicked me out for ’defective moral standards’...” 

“That sounds serious.” Eliot pulled him closer. Quinn might be trying to sound amused, but that had to hurt. 

“A monitor found me balls deep in our representative’s power guard,” Quinn stated matter of factly with a scornful shrug. “Lousy fuck, I must add. Two days later, Father just handed me control of my trust account and told me I was on my own.”

“Sorry,” Eliot whispered over Quinn’s hair.

“I’m better without them,” Quinn replied almost immediately, with a little bit more cheer than it warranted. “I found a job as a bodyguard, then as a hitter, and kept my powder dry until a good investment came my way.” Quinn raised his glass and pointed at the open plan of his gorgeous apartment. “It's a good place, don’t you think?”

“It’s a nice place,” Eliot agreed and picked up his glass. “That reminds me, there is a place we haven’t christened yet…”

“No…” Quinn doubted for a second. “Bedroom, pole room, bathroom, kitchen, living…” He tapped his wine glass against Eliot’s chest. “We even did the deed against the washing machine!”

Eliot looked at the balcony and then at Quinn. Quinn’s lips parted just slightly and Eliot loved the way that jaw suddenly relaxed when a surprise hit Quinn’s brain… It was sexy. The wine glass was put down again.

“We are going to get pneumonia!”

“Think about it…” Eliot whispered in Quinn’s ear, his hand drawing spirals over Quinn’s nice shirt. “Your hands gripping the ice-cold rail, me on my knees, my mouth latched to…”

Quinn coughed with ostentation, put his glass on the coffee table, and pulled Eliot’s hand to make him stand up. Eliot knew right there that he would have a privileged spot to watch the New Year fireworks.
    
    
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It took three days, but Vance found Quinn. Last night, Quinn had been inside a Russian operating room, and Vance and the Unit were not placing bets on ever hearing his voice. As a courtesy to Eliot, Vance let Shelley escort Quinn. It was good to know he had spilled enough blood to be worthy of some extraordinary allowances.

The big Atlas carrier landed at PDX airport without any hassle. Eliot was there, waiting with the EMT unit and wishing with all his heart he hadn’t needed to be there. The guys in uniform acted with martial precision and Eliot did his best to get out of the way.

“FYEO,” Shelley started his report as the military medics transferred responsibility to the civilian EMTs. He spared Eliot the usual joyous greeting. “They kept him under the Bagdad Special cocktail for a while.” 

Eliot felt a distaste for the name, but Shelley hadn’t gone soft yet and Eliot couldn’t ask his best friend to get human when he was about to return to war. Yet, the memory of that drug cocktail and its consequences weighed heavily on Eliot’s soul sometimes.

“His ticker is a big mess right now and we almost lost him in the lift-off, but he’s a stubborn SOB.” Shelley almost sounded impressed. 

The stretcher, surrounded by medics, passed by and Eliot forced himself to stay still as they wheel Quinn in. Bruises were barely noticeable under the lines. His weight was really down. Eliot felt his fist closing so tight his phalanges hurt. Someone had to pay for this damage. Shelley, gently, pulled Eliot by the arm and guided him to the medical transport.

“Eliot,” Shelley whispered in Farsi as he pulled Eliot before he could climb up to the ambulance. “Who knows about Kahmard?”

The name felt like a hit to the balls; Eliot groaned and almost doubled over on legs too weak to bear his weight. A cold breeze caressed his face and the tarmac disappeared. There was only a freezing mountain gorge and the flickering light of an overturned Humvee. The frigid wind running through his short hair; scorching heat at his back. His helmet rocking madly between his feet and the smell of charred flesh filling his nostrils... 

“Eliot!” Shelley almost screamed his name and shook him.

The movement felt familiar and was both comforting and startling at the same time. Eliot looked at Shelley. Shelley in his fatigues… His battle buddy always knew how to bring him back.

“No one,” Eliot mumbled with a weak voice. His armpits and his crotch were uncomfortably wet. “No one but the Unit.”

“Someone must know,” Shelley turned to the EMTs assessing their man. “They used a cattle prod on him, Eliot.” 

Eliot closed his eyes and he could only see the erratic pattern of flashes behind his eyes. Electricity does strange things to the brain. 

“Like they did in Kahmard?”

“The poor bastard lost some skin in that particular game,” Shelley confirmed with a small, serious nod. “Is this personal?”

“Ask me again when he’s safe,” Eliot said as he opened his eyes and started to climb into the ambulance.
    
    
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Sleep was an illusion and Eliot Spencer had no use for it. The vibration inside his pocket announced another message from Hardison, but Eliot didn’t have use for that either.

Hospitals were among his least favorite places. The smell of disinfectants and the clammy cold made his skin crawl, which would probably be more tolerable if the sounds of people suffering weren’t so muted and sharp at the same time.

The last forty-two hours had been a marathon. Quinn had coded twice. The doctors had put him on mechanical ventilation to let his heart get some rest. Only Eliot was holding his breath, his chest shaking with gloomy trepidations. Eliot’s whole attention had been focused on the third unit of ICU for so long that only Shelley could remind him there was another larger world he had to pay attention to.

“I lift off at zero dark thirty,” Shelly informed him, pushing a styrofoam coffee cup into Eliot’s hands. “If you have some intel to share, now’s the time.”

Eliot sighed and wrapped his fingers around the cup. Coffee was the least of his concerns right now, but Shelley always knew how to start a convo. Eliot looked at the third bed of the ICU and for a moment he felt spent, weak and scared, but training held the exterior while the interior crumbled. Shelley kept his silence and, gently, he put his hand on Eliot’s shoulder. Like the old times, Shelley massaged the shoulder in a mute signal of solidarity.

“I lied to Vance,” Eliot confessed to his crime and took a sip from the horrible hospital coffee. “I have zero intel.”

Shelley’s hand on Eliot’s shoulder became still for a second. Eliot could feel the disappointment pouring from his old battle buddy and Eliot shared it for a moment. They both know the steep punishment diverting Army resources could bring Eliot. Then the silent signal they had used many times came; that very distinctive pressure on his shoulder: all the fingers, not the thumb. His battle buddy got his six again and, without any question, sided with Eliot. 

“Oh…” There was not even a slight raise in Shelley’s intonation. “You better find a terrorist attack soon, then.”

Eliot nodded. He could find something if he could only have the time. The current political situation was a poorly guarded powder keg and errant sparks were easy to spot.

“You can see it,” Eliot said, providing his battle buddy with an excuse for returning empty-handed. “The witness cannot speak.”

“So I will report.” Shelley’s voice gathered a bit of warmth. “You better keep us in the loop.”

Eliot nodded slowly and ignored the vibration inside his pocket. 
    
    
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The elevator was slow and rickety and Eliot’s anxiety was acting up. Eliot sighed and changed the box from one hand to the other, asking himself for the thousandth time if he was as half-witted as he felt. The box in his hand felt so heavy. The door opened on the floor and Eliot came out. For some stupid reason, he felt like crouching and moving close to the walls. His eyes rolled inside his skull, annoyed at his own tomfoolery. 

Either Quinn will accept his visit or he wouldn't; there were no other options.

The HDU was a lot more hospitable than ICU, but it was still a hospital. That bed and the tubes couldn’t be concealed if they were to perform as they were meant to. Eliot knocked, out of habit, to warn the nurse’s aid helping Quinn to get a sip of water. 

“Oh, you have a visitor!” The nurse’s aid stated the obvious, but Eliot was grateful because he didn’t know how to start a conversation.

Quinn, resting on the bed and wearing a faded johnny with the shoulder strap hanging open, looked at Eliot with a hard gaze.

“Quinn.”

“Eliot,” Quinn replied and he tried to tilt his head without much success.

“Brought you something,” Eliot said, putting the candy box on the side table.

“ _Szaloncukrok_ ,” Quinn looked at the box and his hard gaze softened a bit. 

Eliot nodded and his shoulders relaxed. The candies hung a fragile bridge between them and, for a second, Eliot almost felt the same shared intimacy that had taken them a year and a half to build. Eliot resisted the urge to cup his hand on Quinn’s cheek with the help of the question gnawing his brain again. His rights were not clear... 

“Not allowed,” the cute nurse’s aid interrupted their moment and snatched the box from the table. “You are on a clear liquid diet.”

“I won’t eat them!” Quinn protested and the hardness returned. Eliot was almost grateful Quinn’s health was so compromised: he had no more favors to burn to pull Quinn from a second-degree murder charge.

“I’ll keep them safe for you,” the nurse’s aide replied. “We can ask your doctor tomorrow.”

With those words, she left the room to safeguard the forbidden item. Quinn scoffed and relaxed again. Eliot let his eyes roam the visible skin: bruises around the neck were fading, the one on his arms were more recent, a bruise in Quinn’s armpit betrayed the place where they kept the drug-delivery tube. It was a pretty large bore, those brutes probably kept him alive through TPN. Eliot wanted to comfort Quinn, but he was unsure. Quinn had other responsibilities now, it wasn't Eliot’s place to hold Quinn in his arms anymore...

“Charming gal...” Eliot had finally said and moved to the visitor’s chair next to the bed.

The words tasted bitter because his brain reminded him there was another charming gal with more rights to Quinn than him.

“You wouldn’t think that if you were in my place...” Quinn protested and moved to find a better spot in his bed. He was slow and winced the whole time.

“It’s her job,” Eliot commented and dragged a chair closer.

“Go on!” Quinn taunted and locked his eyes with Eliot’s. “Side with her…”

“You barely made it, Quinn!”

“Did I scare you?”

“What if you did?” Eliot rebuked and almost launched himself out of his chair.

Quinn huffed and averted his eyes, then he used his right hand to cover the dressing of the IV line inside his arm. Eliot’s arms were aching; the need to hold Quinn was maddening. Eliot let his shoulders slump: he was tired of being the strong one.

“Look, I know you're a married man now, but I still need to process the breakup…”

“Classy, Eliot, dumping me while I’m still in this hospital bed!”

“I’m not breaking up with you!” Eliot exploded and jumped from the chair to the side of the bed. “And even if I were, there would be a lot more consideration than to send my marriage certificate in a text! Huh? Because I care! I care for people, you rude f…!”

“Wait, wait, _wait!_ ” Quinn interrupted Eliot’s tirade and tried in vain to sit on the bed. “I’m not married and sure as fuck I don’t have a marriage certificate to show.”

Eliot scoffed and whipped out his phone. If Quinn’s marriage license were a printed copy, it would've been very crumpled and stained, but the image was untouched by the many times Eliot had consulted it. Eliot passed the device to Quinn without any comment.

Quinn cast a glance to the screen and crumbled slowly into the bed again. His slumped shoulders began to shiver and his chin slid down before his chest spasmed hard enough to scrunch that light blue gown. Eliot cringed, it was not his intention to go this way in the first visit. Upsetting a man just out of ICU was like kicking a puppy.

“I’m sorry…” Eliot mumbled and put his hand on Quinn’s shoulder.

His touch provoked a tremor and Eliot fought the impulse to take it back. Tears were streaming down Quinn’s jowls, but he made no attempt to stop them; he was too busy bringing his hands down. Sheet spared Eliot the sight but Eliot knew, by how Quinn’s chest was wracked with short, convulsive sobs, he had made a new discovery. Quinn’s lips trembled as he mumbled incoherently; broken words mixed with short bawls filled the room. Eliot took a stab at trying some comforting words, but he was cut short by a wailing exclamation that tumbled down—fully formed and quite coherent—from Quinn’s mouth.

“My father’s _wedding ring_!”

Between sobs, stumbling over his own words, and without any care about the snot running down his nose, Quinn told him the bare details of a horrible, merciless hit. 

The world could be damned: Eliot held Quinn against his chest when his story became just rambling incoherent rage.
    
    
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The taxi drove through packed streets by what felt like hours, Quinn pulled the leg of his trousers and crossed his legs. Once or—when his luck had run out—twice a year, Quinn gets summoned to the same place in Bethesda, had the same boring dinner that lasted precisely sixty minutes, exchanged the same insults with the same polite and restrained tone to avoid disturbing the rest of the guests.

If Quinn was willing to endure his father’s charade, it was only for the sake of not having a slew of spiteful voicemails clogging his inbox; clients had priority.

The phone inside his interior coat pocket vibrated: four short pulses. Quinn smiled and checked his messages. _Tell me when you're on your way_ , Eliot demanded on his screen and the smile on Quinn’s face was immediate. Quinn had planned to stay with Eliot until the Fourth of July because Eliot had his heart set on a barbecue and fireworks. Such a small price to pay to make Eliot happy, though Quinn could barely spare a day of work. Maybe he should remind Eliot his payout checks were not in the million-per-hit range. 

_Quick job in DC_ , Quinn texted back and secretly smiled at the idea of sleeping on Eliot’s single bed, spooning him closely, drinking the smell of his warm flesh... They had plans, big simple plans; Quinn still had questions about ’dropping by Oklahoma to fish’. Quinn’s American geography could get a brush-up but he was almost sure Portland and Oklahoma were quite far apart. _I’ll be free by midnight_.

Quinn secured his phone inside his custom made briefcase, between the spare clean shirt and his travel kit. He had sent his luggage to Eliot’s restaurant, but it never hurt to have a fresh shirt to change into. 

The taxi arrived at the building and Quinn got down in front of the restaurant. Money exchanged hands and, almost immediately, information too with the cute hostess. Quinn held his briefcase closed and let his eyes roam, assessing the décor. They had changed it since the last time he had set foot here. The fleeting thought that Eliot would hate the place crossed his mind and a sarcastic burst of laughter threatened to spill from his tense lips.

A table in the center of the restaurant (to coerce good behavior), long white tablecloths (to encourage polite table manners), red wine poured already in the cups (to minimize dead time): a carefully set scene to avoid a distressing spat. Quinn focused his attention on his father and the unpleasant premonition of his own future made him shudder. 

Jonah Quinn The Third was very spry for a fifty-something-year-old man; the silver of his hair only helped to highlight the golden color of his blond head. His shoulders, as well as his jawline, were still square and his back unbending. Quinn was sure that, if he stood close enough, he would get knocked out by the fresh and spicy scent of his aftershave and the pungent cedar wood of his cologne. There was a time when Quinn would have given anything to fit into that mold of soft power, but he had long outgrown that longing.

His father—the real Mr. Quinn—stood up. Time had taken its toll, Quinn noticed his father was slightly shorter than he remembered, but his gaze behind that half-rimmed frame still packed that particular strong slap. Quinn felt it as his attire, his bearing, and the very way he breathed was properly criticized with a swift look from head to toe. Their handshake was professional; the exchange of pleasantries, brief, and the invitation to sit, curt. Quinn might have felt like a kid again, but he noticed his query about his mother went unanswered, just like every other time he had dared to ask. 

A perfunctory reading of the menu was the next point, Quinn had lived through it so many times. If his father really wanted to expedite the process he could have ordered Quinn’s porterhouse steak and his own surf-and-turf plate. Their order never changed.

“I assume you've heard of my latest exploits,” Quinn prodded once the server slid twenty ounces of perfection in front of him. 

“Let’s not talk about unpleasant topics,” was the terse reply that came immediately.

“I would surely have a reason for this meeting,” Quinn insisted and took the first bite of his meat. The porterhouse steak was delicious, as usual.

“Marriage,” his father replied between forkfuls of lobster.

“Good thing we are avoiding unpleasant topics!”

“You are approaching thirty, Jonah, and I’m not getting any younger,” Father said as he leaned back and swirled his red wine inside the glass. “It’s time to think of the next generation.”

“That’s an issue that requires no discussion,” Quinn rebutted and dabbed the corner of his mouth with that clean cloth napkin. “I have engaged my romantic life in ways that make such a thing impossible.”

“A suitable heir could hardly come from such a degenerate scion, but I’m willing to try.” 

“You can eat my entire ass, Father,” Quinn almost spat as he cut the steak with all the fine manners he had learned over the years. There was no use to let a good free dinner go to waste.

“Spare me your crass language.”

“If you need pointers, I can name you a couple of Congressmen that got it right the first time.”

“Enough.”

Quinn rolled his eyes and swallowed back the string of juicy details he was about to regale his father with. Experience had taught him that, once that particular word got dropped, his father became virtually deaf. Quinn shrugged and turned his attention to the steak in front of him. 

“Fortunately, there is a family that shares our particular predicament,” Quinn Sr. picked up the conversation after the lobster was gone. He picked up the bottle and refilled Quinn’s glass. “A girl with peculiar tastes needs a husband and they are amenable to make you the aforementioned.”

“I’m happy to decline the honor,” Quinn replied with a small smile. His father hadn’t earned enough gratitude points to force him into a lavender marriage. “I’ve told you more than once: I have no intention to marry anyone.”

“Spoken like the true _bohunk_ you turned out to be.”

Quinn let out a weary sigh, closed his eyes, and wondered for the umpteenth time if his father would have fucked his mother if he had known her parents were from Central Europe.

“Put aside your selfish desire of ruining all the good reputations and your unnatural amusements, Jonah,” his father stood his ground with practiced diplomacy. “It’s time to stop squandering your talents and make sure the name Quinn lives on.”

“With all due respect,” Quinn rebated and smiled his little sardonic smile because in this case the amount of respect due was nil, “you have lived your life. You had a wife and you could have bred,” Quinn stopped to look at the grimace on his father’s face, “a dozen brats and not just me. This life is mine and I have chosen to live gay and to die single.”

Without a word, his father took out a white envelope and put it in front of Quinn. This part was new and curiosity got the best of Quinn. It was a prenuptial agreement, finely crafted, more than forty clauses. They did not even require cohabitation, just sperm donation. Almost at the end of the document, the mortal blow struck and Quinn felt how his jaw slacked: _the paternal grandparents agreed to raise any child resulting from this marriage_. Years of emotional neglect and verbal abuse rushed through his head; his father would have another kid to torture over his dead body and cursed be the name 'Quinn'.

“A very enticing proposal,” Quin said, folding the paper, his ironic smile dancing on the corner of his mouth. “I can see the benefits and all that it’s to profit, however…”

His father tilted his head and Quinn felt a rush of bile rising to his mouth. He had seen that tilt in videos, in mirrors, in any reflective surface, and he hated it with all his heart. That head tilt was irrefutable proof that he could never leave Jonah Quinn The Third behind.

“However…?”

“However, I’m currently unable to profit from it.” 

Quinn stopped to put the envelope next to his father’s hand, he even spared a caress to that fine hand. The best part of a hit was when you strike to kill; Quinn looked at his father’s eyes and smiled.

“My birthday gift to myself, Father, was the bilateral section of my _vasa deferentia_ as soon as it was allowed.” Quinn felt his smile growing larger by the second. He had waited almost ten years to drop this particular bomb. “I’m shooting blanks, and I have been doing so for years.” 

Jonah Quinn The Third, the man who was used to telling leaders of the Eastern Bloc to shove it, didn’t even gulp, let alone flinch. His hand took the wine glass and approached it to his mouth.

“How unfortunate…”
    
    
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Quinn did his best to control himself when the nurse’s aide came to chew Eliot’s ass for upsetting her patient. His efforts, however, didn’t save Eliot, who got an earful with a meek stance while Quinn blew his nose and dabbed his eyes. It was a brave effort but Eliot wanted to kick himself for losing perspective and having a lover’s spat with Quinn. That last month in the limbo—not knowing where Quinn was, not knowing if the document was real—had worn him down worse than he thought. The last two weeks—not knowing if Quinn would survive long enough to give him a name—didn’t help either.

The nurse’s aid asked Quinn many times if he wanted Eliot gone, without any success. Quinn sipped his water and shook his head stubbornly at the suggestion every time. 

“If you upset him again, I’ll call security,” she warned before leaving them alone.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eliot agreed because he would call security on his person too. He waited until she was gone for good before approaching Quinn’s bed again. “Say what you want, it comforts me to know that she has her watchful eyes on you…”

“You have no idea what she’s going to do…” Quinn stopped to gulp. Eliot noticed how big his pupils were: fear. “...to me as soon as you cross that door.”

“I have an idea,” Eliot rebutted and leaned over the rail. Quinn’s wounds required constant care at this stage, Eliot knew first hand how slowly that particular tissue healed. “I wish I didn't, but I know.” 

Eliot looked at Quinn's eyes and tried a reassuring smile. Quinn tried to smile back, but his expression was still tense. There was no way to know how well the Russian surgery went, but if Quinn was afraid, Eliot began to suspect some nerves were badly repaired. Without a word, Eliot dropped the bed-rail and sat on Quinn’s bed. Quinn was smart and he didn’t need too much prompting. Feeble as he was, Quinn did his best to cuddle against Eliot without messing with all the tubes inside his body.

“I’m trying not to be too jealous…” Eliot mumbled in Quinn’s hair, trying to lighten up the mood.

Quinn snorted and chuckled, but Eliot felt him get stiff after the first burst. 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Quinn protested with a small whimper. “Everything hurts right now.”

“I know it hurts: take all the painkillers they give you,” Eliot advised, pressing Quinn’s head against his chest. Quinn was hot under Eliot’s cold hands. “You are safe. You are in my city, I’ll keep you safe.” 

Quinn nodded and put his head against Eliot. Eliot pressed his lips together because he was running out of ideas; the comfort Eliot could bring to a man who just learned his own father organized a hit against him was not up to the task.

“Eliot…” Quinn called out in a soft whisper.

“Tell me.”

“Are you going to come again?”

The question hurt. Not for the question itself, but for the implications: Quinn feared that Eliot would abandon him in the hospital. Eliot pressed his hand against Quinn’s shoulder and tried not to grind his teeth. Eliot seldom wanted anything as much as to sock Quinn’s father square in the chin.

“I didn’t bring you from Russia to dump you when you need me the most.”

“Can you recover my phone? My whole life was there and if he….” Quinn stopped and gulped. “If he went to mess with… with this _thing_ we have going, I dread what he might have done with my clients.”

“First of all,” Eliot started with a stern voice, “we are an item if you still want to.” 

“I do,” Quinn said and rested his hand on Eliot’s t-shirt. Eliot held it without thinking.

“Second, I’m going to need Hardison for that, and Hardison means Leverage.”

“It means Parker too,” Quinn said with a small shudder. Eliot couldn’t tell if Quinn’s fever or pain brought it but he felt a small heartache. “I need the best thief in the world.” 

“We will get you revenge,” Eliot promised and pulled the blanket.“I might even spare some of the punks that did this to you.” 

“Get what he stole from me, pal,” Quinn mumbled with a strange quiver in his voice. Eliot knew Quinn was trying to hold his waterworks in check. “Revenge can wait.”
    
    
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Hardison heard the Challenger on the loading bay and started to fire up the displaying screens and the complex system of trackers. Thirty minutes ago, he had been planning to raid a Tax Haven, just to flex his hacking muscles, but now they had a completely different game to play. Eliot’s call was enough to change the whole program because their hitter has never once asked for anything this important before.

The back door opened and Parker poked her head out of the vents to greet Eliot. She was able to read something was off just by looking at the way he walked. Eliot grumbled and waved the box of candy over his head. Parker took it with an utterly confused expression.

“Ready to roll it, Hardison?” Eliot asked with that even voice that always announced a no-holds-barred beatdown.

Hardison nodded and picked up the pointer. Parker dropped from the ventilation ducts still holding the box of candy Eliot had had to wrestle from Parker’s hands that very morning.

“Weren’t these for Quinn?” Parker asked because her curiosity won over her confusion.

“They won’t let Quinn eat them,” Eliot explained and took his seat at the table.

“That bad?” Hardison felt a tremor running down his spine.

“Just roll it, Hardison!”

Hardison let the images appear on the screen, but his eyes were on Parker. His girl had never looked more childlike before: Standing behind Eliot with one hand holding those expensive chocolates against her chest, the other trembling, as she reached towards Eliot’s stiff back. She looked hurt, but not for herself. Hardison was sure she could feel Eliot’s pain and anger and she was doing her best to not hug it away. She finally put the chocolate box in one of the side tables and took her place next to Eliot with a tense expression. 

“Our client, Jonah Quinn the Fourth,” Hardison said with an expression that showed to the world that he still didn’t believe the information in front of his eyes. 

Half an hour ago Eliot gave him Quinn’s real name and once Hardison followed the thread he understood how deep the rabbit hole went. 

“AKA Mister Quinn happens to be the only child of one of the most respected members of the Foreign Service: Jonah Quinn the Third.” Anyone could taste the sarcasm in his words. “Seriously, this man has been in the diplomatic circles since Reagan’s first run and has his fingers in every treaty put forth by the USA since the Glasnost.”

“Big name,” Eliot translated to Parker, who was not impressed by Hardison’s presentation, “lots of hidden power.”

“Mr. Quinn dropped out of the radar after a trip to Washington, DC, almost seven weeks ago. The last ping of his phone in a tower was at Dulles International airport.” Hardison continued taking a step back to let them have a better view of the screen. “NSA got twelve hours of that day’s footage on hold under the Patriot Act…”

“Did you find what happened?” Eliot interrupted and crossed his arms.

“Did I...?” Hardison let out a snort. “Bro, my name is Alec Hardison!”

Parker was waving madly to signal him to stop before signaling at Eliot’s fist. Those big fists they always rely on were balled so tight that they could see each sinew and vein. This was not the time to make jokes. With a sigh, Hardison let the video roll. Parker didn’t spare a look for the screen, her full attention on their friend. Hardison wished he could do as much, but he had to glance at the screen from time to time to know when to let the video stop. 

Mercifully, the brutal spectacle was short, but looking at Eliot’s face during those two minutes and fifteen seconds was almost too much for him. Eliot didn’t even flinch when three men threw their whole weight against Quinn; his face showed no sign of emotion but his eyes… His eyes followed each punch like he was waiting for the chance to give it back.

“Two weeks ago, our client turned out in the Czech Embassy in Moscow with evident signs of violence…”

“Torture,” Eliot interrupted with a blank stare. “He had his vasectomy undone and internal burns from TREE. It was torture.”

“Hey, man…” Hardison put the pointer down and moved to sit on the command table. “Are you OK? We know this is personal for you.”

“It’s not personal,” Eliot mumbled and stopped for a second to look at Parker and then to Hardison. “It’s solidarity. Quinn is a hitter and this could destroy his career...” 

Parker jumped from her chair and hugged Eliot with all her strength. Instead of fighting the touch, as was his habit, Eliot sighed and rested his head on Parker’s shoulder.

“Like we're going to believe you,” Parker said, her hand already petting Eliot’s head.

Eliot scoffed and Hardison climbed up the table. There was no way Parker would get the lion share in this affair.

“It can’t be personal…” Eliot insisted five minutes later. Hardison began to believe that no amount of pampering could take the sting of this heinous attack.

“Because Quinn is married now?”

Hardison didn’t mean to hurt Eliot or startle Parker but it happened. Eliot cringed so hard that Parker began to rock him against her chest. Eliot let out an inarticulate sound, half a whine, half a grunt. His hands, gentle as always, wrapped around Parker. 

“Yes,” Eliot finally admitted after a deep breath, as if the words were painful, “but more importantly, because it’s not about only him and me anymore. We could make it work if it was just a shame marriage, but they stole his....”

“I get you, bro,” Hardison cut him because there was no need to take a detour to explain Parker whichever street word Eliot would spew. Comfort got priority now: Eliot really was out of his mind. “Quinn might have a child in the works by now.”
    
    
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Quinn stopped by the bookcase to pick up a colorful egg from its base before coming to cuddle Eliot on his couch in front of the window. They both got a cold from their New Year mischief, but Eliot bore it with a bit more dignity than his host. The smell of the soup on the stove was enough to comfort him, but Quinn needed a bit more. 

With a weary sigh, Quinn pushed Eliot against the bookcase and wedged himself between the couch and Eliot’s chest. Then, as if he wouldn’t care for Eliot, he started to toy with the egg, turning it around, stopping to caress one detail that betrayed it was hand-painted, running his fingertips on the parts where the paint was thicker. Eliot noticed that Quinn had in his hands a real eggshell.

“What’s with the eggs?” Eliot asked after a while because small talk distracted his brain from the itch of his nose and the heaviness of his breath. 

“I don’t know,” Quinn replied before sneezing. Eliot noticed how Quinn cupped his hand to protect the fragile egg from his own strength. “I like Easter Eggs, they're pretty. I had them in every house I lived in when I was a kid. Nannies gave them to me for Easter. I lost them every time my parents had to move.”

Eliot handed Quinn a tissue and waited until he blew out. Quinn felt hot and Eliot thought again of putting his foot down if Quinn insisted on going to Tallinn for one last Christmas Market; Eliot didn’t care how tall the tree was. The Ukrainian blanket was spread over them and Eliot had to admit it was very nice to share their combined warmth.

“They just make me happy…”

“You are allowed to have things that make you happy,” Eliot said and turned around a bit to let Quinn’s fevered head rest against his shoulder better. “Now, grab twenty winks.”

It wasn’t long before Quinn stopped fighting his cold and fell asleep in Eliot’s safe embrace. It was much, much later, under the soft glow of those Bosnian mosaic glass lamps hanging over his head that Eliot realized Quinn’s parents changed addresses without any regard for their son’s childhood treasures.
    
    
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“Pretty…” Quinn mumbled when Eliot finished assembling the plywood stand. 

Eliot smiled and took good care to put Quinn’s new phone within his reach. The stand held five eggs with the primary colors as background and decorated with a myriad of small details; they were a pretty sight. Last Easter, a woman in a hippie stall was selling them in one of the farmer’s markets and Eliot bought them on a whim. He had been waiting to give Quinn the eggs as a welcome gift, but Quinn needed a Get-Well-Soon present now. Quinn’s feverish eyes looked at the small collection with a new shine, but even that was too little and too late.

The last two days had been… challenging; Eliot could read the fight in those deep rings and those unnaturally hollow cheeks. Doctors had been pumping Quinn full of antibiotics; nurses had been trying to make him eat without success; sleep was difficult and nightmare plagued. Quinn was simply too overwhelmed, in spite of all the care. 

“I couldn’t get you the eggshell ones,” Eliot commented, brushing Quinn’s bangs from his eyes. The skin under his fingertips was scorching to the touch. “These are wood.”

“ _Pretty_ ,” Quinn repeated with his eyes fixed on the eggs and only then Eliot noticed Quinn was speaking Russian. “ _Can I have one?_ ”

Eliot nodded and took the red one from the stand, Quinn followed his hand and he smiled when Eliot put one under his hand. Quinn picked it up, observed it for a moment, and then brought it to his heart with a small sigh. He was too tired to toy with his new treasure.

“I’m going to be away for a few days,” Eliot said once Quinn pulled his new treasure against his chest. “We have a plan, but we gotta go to DC.”

“ _I understand_ ,” Quinn mumbled. His eyelids fluttered, his body exhausted from its too long fight against a fever.

“You got to fight, Quinn,” Eliot said and touched Quinn’s arm. “I can’t be here and steal back your stuff.” Eliot stopped because it was hard not to gulp between words. “Don’t give up.”

“ _I’ll be here_ ,” Quinn assured him with a tired voice. 

“Good,” Eliot said, resting his hand on Quinn’s free hand. “Now, grab twenty…”

Sleep had already snatched Quinn, but Eliot stood next to his bed the whole visit, watching how the sweat stain on Quinn’s bed sheet spread, hearing the slow drip of the bags above the headboard and the constant beeping of the machines. Mainly, Eliot spent his time holding Quinn’s hand and wondering where should he put all his unspent anger to use. 
    
    
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The command center chair was never more uncomfortable. Eliot felt like he was simmering in a constant rage he dared not spend in matters without consequence. During the flight to DC, Parker and Hardison said they were going to take the intel-gathering task because they could see Eliot was seething. 

Parker, always the curious one, took the easiest part of the task. Quinn was married to a woman who was a rather famous internet celebrity. Her name meant absolutely nothing to Eliot, but Hardison’s brow furrowed. Parker was working on a beauty parlor, aiming to clone her credit card and her phone, just to keep the variables in check.

Hardison, on the other hand, moved to the big target. Apparently, Quinn learned from his father how to keep things secret. Mr. Quinn Sr. had retired from public life, but his big house in Bethesda allowed him to feel the pulse of the nation; he was a busy man. Hardison, in plain chinos and pressed shirt, disguised as a Political Science student looking for an interview.

“What are you?” a shrill voice rang on Eliot’s ear and demanded that he pay attention to the screen to his left. “Polish?”

There was a blonde woman screaming at Parker while Parker relieved her from her coat and bag. With a critical eye and more than a month of playing fast and loose to drown his misery, Eliot noticed her beauty was slightly above average—To use Hardison’s lingo, he would tap that. Her demeanor, on the other hand, was the kind of abusive, entitled brat they usually took down. 

“Such a small place…” Hardison commented and the button camera on his sport jacket showed a huge white Tudor. “I bet he has at least eight bathrooms and four different strongboxes.”

Eliot made an unarticulated grunt and tried not to look at the other screen. By the sound of it, the blonde had moved to scream to another employee. The lawn in front of the house was immaculate and Eliot could guess the house recently received a fresh coat of paint. Eliot knew this was not Quinn’s home, but he didn’t harbor the smallest doubt he had lived in many places just like this. Eliot was once so proud of his little home in Portland…

A young, somber maid answered the door and looked at Hardison from head to toe. Hardison was surely smiling at her with that big grin of his. A plain business card flashed on the screen as Hardison passed it to the domestic worker. Small talk always washed over Eliot’s head and this time was not the exception. There were more important things to pay attention to.

The foyer—a house as expensive as this one couldn’t name this room anything else—, bathed in natural light _,_ looked straight out a catalog; Eliot could see where Quinn got his home décor sense. But just as the bookcases were Quinn’s showcase for his treasures, this room was almost an altar to another obsession. 

The huge painting of a woman dressed like Brunhild carrying a sword and a shield in hand dominated the place; there was something in that woman’s face that looked very familiar. Two massive carved bookcases brimming with stuff and leather-bound books clashed with two old timber frame chairs and a heavily inlaid coffee table. Eliot almost wished he could have more training with Quinn bookcases because he couldn’t fully grasp the contents of the place. 

“Walk a bit slower…” Eliot grumbled, trying to make sense of the collection of small coins displayed between the books and those cavalry sabers hanging from the wall. 

“I can’t,” Hardison complained and followed the woman at her speed just when Eliot was wondering why someone would place a tarot card set between a silver tankard and a case with rings. “You're recording it. We can watch it later at… Oh!”

The woman appeared suddenly on Hardison's camera. She was dressed in a floral dress, a cup of red wine in one hand, and a bottle in the other. Her hair was fair, with that same shade of soft brown that wild honey had when you squeeze the honeycomb, carefully set in waves. Those dark eyes looked forward with nonchalant detachment. It was as if she had stepped out from a Great War poster. Eliot couldn’t see her feet, but he was almost sure she was standing on high heels; pin-up girls, even the aged ones, should always walk on heels.

Eliot took out his phone and shot a picture in a burst of sentimentality: he had been an orphan for so long that spare someone from that desolation was almost a duty. _I found your mom, Quinn_ … At least he could confirm with Quinn that his mom was still alive.

“What’s this…” the woman asked with an indignant, yet restrained tone, “ _person_ doing here?”

“He has an appointment with the master, mistress.”

Eliot was too busy sending Quinn the picture to spare any attention to the screen, but the overly deferential tone was properly registered in the back of his mind. Eliot looked at the screen at the same time she moved away, her high heels made a very distinctive sound against the floor.

“Oh. A master’s _whim_ ,” she scoffed and raised her brow in a gesture that made Eliot’s heart cringe. He had seen that half-amused, half-annoyed eyebrows on a beloved face. “Carry on, then, and draw me a bath, just in case.” 

Hardison made no comment, but his camera was still pointed at Mrs. Quinn as she walked away lusciously, the bottle hanging from her fingertips. Eliot realized he shouldn’t be so intrigued by the way that floral print hugged her behind. She disappeared through some frosted glass french doors to the back lawn.

“This way,” the maid said and moved in the opposite direction. 

Hardison followed her to a heavily ornate door. A double-headed eagle carved on wood, surrounded by baroque acanthus. Eliot wondered if that was as old as it looked when it moved and a man walked out the room. Any other time, Eliot would be more curious about the place—libraries were catnip to his soul—but the man was raising his blonde head, a smile half-formed on his lips as he fidgeted with the cuff-links. His head was turning, tilting slowly to the side, his eyes were opening and the small sardonic smile looked almost genuine.

“Damn!” Eliot mumbled without even noticing it. “Quinn’s gonna age like a fine wine!”

“What?” Hardison whispered because he failed to register the thirst on Eliot’s voice.

The sound of Hardison’s voice froze the man in place for a moment, then he turned his head slowly. The smile melted and those eyes—that was the coldest shade of blue Eliot had ever seen—fixed on Hardison. Eliot could tell Mr. Quinn was doing his best to keep his upper lip from curling, but there was nothing he could do about the pretty distinctive tension in the corner of those eyes; only fear, disgust and hate could compose that baleful look and that look held a good dose of the three.

“Get out there immediately!” Eliot hissed through the coms. “On your life, get out!”

Hardison took a step back because Eliot was preternatural right most of the time. Time had trained Hardison better than Eliot could.

“Michael? Michael Webber?” Mr. Quinn asked with a false smile that could be spotted from the moon. “I’m so sorry.”

“What for, sir?”

Eliot cringed and his heart broke a little. Hardison’s voice had changed in a heartbeat. Hardison’s performance changed from a confident young man in his way to make an interview for a student magazine to a man playing to be the good dumb one. Eliot knew Hardison usually made that particular tone for a con to mislead a target; this time it sounded like a defense mechanism. That was the sound the wounds of history made when you bumped them.

“Something just came up in The Hill that demands my attention,” Mr. Quinn said, that fake smile unwavering in his face. “I can’t sit with you today and I hadn’t had the time to warn you.”

“Ain’t that a shame?”

“Maybe next time?” Mr. Quinn asked and extended his hand in that immemorial signal of trust between men.

 _Don’t shake that hand!_ Eliot stood up, biting his lip, reckoning in the back of his mind how long it would take him to clear the perimetral wall, run to the house, kick down the door and tackle Mr. Quinn. He was sure that an attack would follow that gesture and hoped Hardison would have the sense to overwhelm his attacker with one of those rapid-fire rants of his.

“Maybe next time, sir,” Hardison replied and closed his hand over Mr. Quinn’s.

“Good _boy_ ,” Mr. Quinn said and his smile got a bit longer, and his eyes a bit harder. 

Hardison recoiled at the word, his camera shook. Mr. Quinn's left hand covered the shake with a paternal gesture and Eliot’s heart sunk to the pit of his belly. In the place the wedding band should be, there was a heavy silver engraved ring instead. Twelve radial sig runes filled the screen and Eliot lost his ability to speak.

“I should be going then,” Hardison mumbled with that overly polite and unsure voice. “You are busy, sir.”

“Run along, my boy,” Mr. Quinn advised with his fixed stare and his still smile. “ _Run_.”

Eliot found a renewed respect for Hardison who didn’t run from the scene. Guided by the maid, his friend undid his walk, at double speed, yes, but he was not running. Hardison’s skin, however, showed a shiny coat of perspiration as he climbed up their temporal Lucille.

“‘ _Get out?_ ’” Hardison demanded and started the car. “What was that?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t spooked…” Eliot grumbled, taking his seat and covering his eyes with his hand. The tone Hardison used still was chilling his bones.

“Spooked? Man, you spooked me! The man was busy…”

“He didn’t want you in his house!”

“Do you think he would have treated you differently?” Hardison’s incensed gaze reflected from the rear-view mirror for a second but then, while they were waiting for the light to change, he asked with an unsure voice: “Is it because I’m black?”

“Yes, Hardison!” Eliot grumbled. “It’s _precisely_ because you are black!”
    
    
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Hardison had organized a basic set up in their hotel’s room living space. Eliot spent the time while their hacker picked up their thief struggling with the video deck. He grumbled, feeling like a failure of a hitter—and as a boyfriend. He should have drilled Quinn when things began to get serious, there was no way Quinn wouldn’t know of his parent’s biases...

In plain sight, a portrait of Germania guarded by SS-Ehrendegen, SS-Ehrendolch, and a collection of Totenkopf rings on the bookcases. Eliot could almost bet all of those were originals. Pausing the video every three seconds, Eliot made an itemized list in his head of all the artifacts on the chance they could mean something.

Parker and Hardison came to the door arguing, Eliot picked up some words but paid them no attention. He was translating the titles of the books, he knew the names: Evola, Schmitt, Müller, Hauer, Velikovsky...

“Hardison thinks you're being racist,” Parker said, poking Eliot in the arm to attract his attention. “Is he right?”

“Next time, I won’t tell him he’s walking right into a lynching, then.”

“Now you're overstating it!” Hardison sat on the arm of the couch with displeasure rippling across his face.

“You're giving too much leeway,” Eliot said and paused the video again. Quinn’s mom was on the screen and that reminded him that Quinn had not replied to his message, “to a man who tortured his own son.”

Parker sat by his side, on the floor, like a kid waiting for someone to explain the movie to her. 

“What is it, Eliot?” Parker asked, without looking at him.”What was the pretty distinctive thing that set you off?”

Eliot sighed and sped up the tape. Jonah Quinn the Third appeared on the screen and Eliot, thinking of his old Sunday school teacher— _Devil hides in beauty_ , slowed the record until the silver ring was displayed.

“That symbol. It’s called a _sonnenrad_. A sun wheel,” Eliot explained and pointed at the ring with the remote. “Some people dismiss it as a simple esoteric symbol, but it’s one of the symbols used by movements of the Neo- _völkisch_ variety.”

Parker looked at him over her shoulder, it was obvious she didn’t understand the reference. Hardison sat straight as just how much danger he'd been in began to dawn onto him. With a sigh, Eliot made a quick search on Hardison's laptop and displayed the Wewelsburg mosaic at full screen and put the laptop on the coffee table.

“This was in a place that’s used as the SS headquarters,” Eliot continued with a tired voice. “Many neo-Nazi groups...”

“Who told you that?” Hardison interrupted Eliot.

“I slept with a German policewoman!” Eliot barked back and returned to his explanation. “Many still active neo-Nazi groups use the _sonnenrad_ as a shibboleth. Hardison was using a German surname, our mark was expecting another Nazi…” 

“I called it!” Parker exclaimed at the counterpoised image of the ring on their mark’s hand and the image Eliot found. “Secret Nazis, I called it!”

“Wanna guess how was I expecting him to react?”

“A fucking Nazi?!” Hardison almost lost it. “Your father-in-law is a fucking Nazi!”

“According to the District of Columbia,” Eliot mumbled with a deep sigh, “he’s someone else’s father-in-law.”

Hardison groaned and Parker moved to sit by his side with a big grin.

“Cheer up!”

“What’s there to cheer up about?”

“We’ve never taken down Nazis before.”

Hardison leaned back and shuddered. Eliot was in a betting mood: he was mentally placing five thousand on that shudder being provoked by the way Quinn’s father said ‘run’ for the last time.

“This changes nothing. That man hurt Eliot’s boo,” Parker said and almost smiled when Eliot cringed, “and he treated you badly. Besides, the woman who married Quinn is not better.” Parker grinned mischievously before adding: “It’s personal for all of us.”

“I failed to keep track of your side of the mission.”

“You didn't miss much.” Parker blew a raspberry. “The content of that woman’s phone was almost as foul as the stink of her breath…”

“She’s in DC because they're founding a rag called _The New Stormer_ …”

“Charming…”

“They plan to go digital…”

“More good news…”

“Can I finish a sentence?”

Eliot grumbled and sat back. That took the wind of Hardison’s sails and he slid from the arm to the couch. Parker hugged them both; Eliot wasn't sure if she understood the situation but he didn’t oppose the affection.

“There is one thing I don’t understand,” Hardison said after a while.

“What is it?” Parker and Eliot asked almost in unison.

“What were the point of the kidnapping and the torture?”

“To get Quinn’s baby juice.”

“Babe, I know this is difficult to understand, but if this was to get that, Mr. Quinn could have gone to the original source.”

Eliot almost began to feel sick but in a second it made some sense.

“Any health trouble?”

“No, our aged Nazi has a clean bill of health.”

Eliot sat straight again, picked up the remote, and re-winded the video until he could freeze a frame in the middle of a row of books. The picture showed a man dressed in WWI Weichmar uniform. The name ‘Jonas Koehne’ was written across the empty space in the Sütterlin style. 

“Use a different spelling,” Eliot mumbled, wondering again if a child must bear a parent's guilt. “And while you're at it, find me Mrs. Quinn’s number.”

“Gladly, if you can decode those spider legs for me…”
    
    
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Eliot felt pretty uncomfortable in the brand new light blue button-up shirt. New shoes pinched his feet, but at least the coat blocked the glacial AC. He was mostly guessing, but the idea of Mrs. Quinn being willing to sit with his usual blue-collar persona was absurd. He had to look the part, not just fake it for a call. He toyed with the little coffee spoon; the person he was waiting for was running late.

Eliot looked at the screen of his phone. There was no message from Quinn regarding the photo Eliot sent him hours ago; Eliot couldn’t blame him. If Hardison had sent him a still of his mother, a bit older than she was the last time Eliot saw her, it would be disconcerting to him too. Eliot typed another message.

“Checking up: Everything OK?”

“All’s right,” Quinn replied in seconds. “Bored and tired. I have news.”

Eliot smiled. If Quinn was feeling bored, it meant he could afford it because he was alert and pain-free. Maybe tonight he could sit on the stairs and call Quinn, but right now, the movement in Eliot's direction called his attention.

A hurried host was leading Jana Quinn to his table. Eliot got up because he wasn’t raised in a stable: a gentleman greets a lady on his feet. She was dressed with the elegant simplicity of those raised with money. The silhouette of her dress was so vintage that it almost looked contemporary. The shade of gray of her dress was flattering, and Eliot, almost against his will, noticed she was stunning for a woman in her fifties.

“ _Close your mouth, you horn dog!_ ” Parker snarked in Eliot's ear.

Eliot tried not to cringe at the sudden sound, but he couldn’t help sending a murderous glare Parker's way. She was at the bar, fooling around with some glasses. 

There was no time for that. Instead, Eliot slipped into character with the ease of long practice and smiled at Quinn's mother. “Mrs. Quinn, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“How could I not?” She replied and began to take off her gloves.

Eliot didn’t miss the glacial tone of her voice. Eliot had to drag her out of her home with all the assortment of tactics he learned during his time doing wetwork. He hadn't made any outright threats, but there was no doubt his invitation was not a request.

“I’m grateful, anyway.” Eliot nodded and, resisting the urge to get up and pull the chair out, pointed at the seat in front of him. The character demanded very particular breaches of protocol.

As she took her place, Eliot poured a cup of tea for her. The table was set for a simple—well, as simple as a place that charged eighty bucks per person could provide—afternoon tea. Quinn might have been sparse with details, but someone had to teach Quinn how a proper tea was meant to be enjoyed. Jana Quinn looked at the cup and then at Eliot. Her eyes became tense, distrustful. Eliot knew that gaze well; he had been learning to love it for the last year.

“What follows after tea?” Jana asked as she folded her gloves and placed them by the cup of tea.

“The resurrection of the dead?” Eliot ventured, remembering Quinn making the same joke in one of those Christmas markets they roamed last year.

Jana laughed at the joke. Eliot still couldn’t understand the humor of the phrase, but it was obviously a family thing and he was let in.

“It has been years since I heard that one…” Jana replied with a small satisfied sigh. Her hand grasped the cup. After a quick sip, she asked: “Where are you from? Your accent is far too American to be real.”

“I’m from the Heartland, ma’am,” Eliot replied and took a sip of his coffee.

“It cannot be,” she insisted and scrutinized him for a long moment. Her lips disappeared as tension drew them into a line. “What are you?”

“Pardon me?” Eliot put his cup down.

“What’s your _race_?”

The question made Eliot uncomfortable. “Ma’am, I don’t ask about that even for _my dogs_!”

“ _What dogs?_ ” Parker chirped in Eliot’s ear. “ _Do you have dogs and haven’t shared them?_ ”

“ _Shh, babe_ ,” Hardison soothed her. He knew the weight of that question. “ _I’ll explain later_.”

They looked at each other for a second and then they did the only thing they could. They raised their cups and sipped again. Parker came by their table, carrying a tray on her hand. Eliot noticed she left with Mrs. Quinn’s purse. That was not part of the plan, but now Eliot knew she shared her husband’s politics.

“You didn’t invite me for tea just for the sake of tea.”

“I have other motives,” Eliot avowed and finished his coffee. “I want to talk about Jonah.” Eliot noticed a sharp increase of distrust in her face and then added: “Your son, Jonah.”

Her cup clinked against the dish and her hand looked for the napkin. Eliot felt like a jerk because she was quick to dab her eyes and her whole face changed.

“He told you about the tea joke.”

“He did. He dragged me to the Christmas Markets, too.” Eliot smiled and looked at her, hoping his face conveyed what he couldn’t express in words. “His wildest dream is to take me to watch a Bolshoi show.”

“So the time hasn't fixed his _problem_.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eliot tried and failed to stop his upper lip from curling. “I enjoy having him in my life.”

“ _Car-e-ful, Eliot_ ,” Hardison whispered in his ear.

“Jonah is in a hospital, right now,” Eliot added, trying to measure his words. “I thought you might care.”

“And what did he do to deserve that?” She picked up her cup and took a sip. “I know my son. He’s a little hellion and he never got anything he didn’t deserve.”

“He said ‘no’ to your husband.” 

She sat straight and looked at Eliot like he had slapped her across the face. Hard.

“I think you should ask him.”

Eliot picked up his phone and speed-dialed Quinn before she had time to object. The call was a knee-jerk reaction on his part, but as he waited for the line to respond he could see the hunger in her dark eyes. Maybe she wanted to hear from her son as much as Quinn wanted to hear her voice.

“Good news!” Quinn shouted cheerfully from the other side of the line without waiting for a greeting. Quinn was obviously overjoyed to have a call: he might be dying of boredom. “They found the infection!”

“Quinn…” Eliot tried to interrupt him, but Quinn was too excited to hear him.

“Apparently some Russian hack forgot some staples inside my…”

“Quinn!” Eliot wondered if they had messed up with his painkillers.

“And even better news! Remember that kinky stuff I wanted to try? Today I learned my ass can get stretched…”

“ _Tony_!”

Quinn shut up almost immediately; it was obvious he still remembered that Eliot only used his name to get his attention. 

“You are on the speaker and your mother is here,” Eliot said after a mercifully brief awkward silence. With a bit of luck, Eliot’s tone would make evident that he didn’t think Quinn’s mother would like to know the details of her son’s sex life. “What now?”

More silence on the other side of the line. Quinn’s breath could be heard through the phone speaker a couple of times, Eliot felt Mrs. Quinn’s gaze on him like a ton of bricks.

“Take me off the speaker,” Quinn finally said, “and then put her on the phone…”

Eliot complied with the request and passed the device. She looked at Eliot like he was pointing a loaded gun at her. Then, she picked up Eliot’s phone and spoke a short word. A pause, more words. Eliot identified the language, but from English, German, Russian and Czech—the languages Quinn favored— _of course,_ she would use the one Eliot was not proficient in. Nevertheless, the sound was calming, it reminded him of good times and cold weather. 

Eliot leaned back and took one of the goat cheese and cranberry rolled tea sandwiches. The next time he checked on Mrs. Quinn, Parker was standing behind her, casting him a look that told the world his mastermind didn’t like to see her hitter slacking on the job. Eliot tilted his head to signal that the mark was too busy chatting, there was little for him to do. Parker returned the purse to its place and walked away in a dramatic huff.

Eliot shrugged and tried one of the fruit tartlets. He was still chewing, enjoying that perfectly baked crust and wishing he had asked for more coffee when Mrs. Quinn’s tone changed to a tone that always made Eliot look for the closest door. That was a fight and everyone around their table could tell: people tried to be polite, but they were staring. Eliot needed to wrangle all his training to not crumble on his chair to present as little target as possible.

Mrs. Quinn shouted something at the phone. Eliot was almost sure she used the verb ‘kill’, but Czech was a skill he still had to master. Jana finished the call and tossed Eliot’s phone to the table, missing the milk jug by a hair. Eliot just sat there, half of the tartlet in his hand and without spit to swallow the rest. Any movement, any word would direct whatever grievance she had against her son onto Eliot. 

She sat in silence for a minute, dabbed her eyes with the napkin again, and picked up her teacup. A small expression of distaste crossed her face as she tasted the cold tea. Eliot could feel her eyes boring holes through his skull over the brim of the cup.

“I don’t know what my son could see in a _mongrel_ like you!”

Eliot felt his jaw tightening, his teeth were thirty-odd pieces of sharp pain divided by a dry tongue. That unprovoked utterance was shocking, even when he was expecting a personal attack because Eliot had steeled himself against a remark about his sex life, not this. 

While Eliot sorted out his headspace, Mrs. Quinn recovered her purse, clutched her gloves, put her sunglasses on, and shuffled to the door with the stiff and unstable step of a functioning alcoholic. She never turned her head back or even bothered to look at the staff.

“ _Eliot_ ,” Hardison called out from the coms. 

Eliot could taste the embarrassment in his tone and that made it a lot worse. Hardison had surely been insulted in this fashion many more times, he shouldn’t be embarrassed on Eliot’s privileged behalf. Mrs. Quinn had borne a fine son, but that was all the good Eliot could see in her. Losing Quinn was her loss and Eliot’s gain.

“I’m alright, Hardison,” Eliot mumbled, placing two folded bills under the dainty saucer. “Sticks and stones. Did Parker find something?”

“ _Something?_ ” Hardison’s chuckle got cut short by the strange noise Orange Squeeze soda always made against his teeth. He was trying to lighten the mood, Eliot was sure. “ _Parker is already on her way. Finish your tea, man._ ”

Eliot looked at the almost untouched service. The pleasure was spoiled, but he was not used to leaving food on the table. He looked at the treats and tried to wonder if it was right to ask for a doggy bag. Usually, he would send Quinn a message, but something told him this was not the best moment for an etiquette consult. 
    
    
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Eliot had taken his earbud out, wishing to have a bit of silence. The problem in front of him looked unsolvable. Quinn was far from perfect but the apple had fallen miles away from the tree or so it seemed. How could Eliot miss the signals? that was the mystery. He had spent the short walk reviewing all their interactions, looking for anything that could scream “fascist!” and came back empty-handed. By the time Eliot pushed the door of their hotel room, he was not even sure he knew the man called Jonah Quinn The Fourth.

“How’s Parker doing?” Eliot asked, putting the fancy doggy bag on the coffee table.

“She’s having fun,” Hardison said pointing at the screen.

A woman in a suit looked at Parker with a slightly worried expression as, by the way Parker’s camera shook and waved, their mastermind was giving her a hell of a performance. Eliot couldn’t hear but, since the lawyer was a woman, Eliot believed Parker was playing the abandoned wife whose husband took her name off the credit cards and changed the locks and kept the dog.

“ _If Eliot didn’t finish the cheese goat sandwiches, I’m calling dibs_!” Parker’s faint voice came from the laptop speakers.

“Good.” 

Eliot sat with his hands between his legs. Hardison snooped on the doggy bag and let out a squeal of delight when he found the chicken salad sandwiches.

“Hey, man, you OK?” Hardison asked between bites of sandwich.

Eliot tapped his ear to remind him of the bud. Hardison complied with the tacit request but turned up the volume of the laptop and moved to the mini-fridge to retrieve a beer and one can of orange soda. Eliot, once again, noticed Hardison was a smart cookie.

The bottles were open and Eliot and Hardison clinked the bottoms in silent cheers. On the screen, Parker, still blubbering, was driven to the lawyer’s office. The screen became a blur as soon as the bolt fell in place.

“What is it, Eliot?” Hardison asked before he helped himself another tasty morsel.

“I don’t know Quinn.”

Hardison chewed the tidbit slowly, looking at Eliot’s eye with a curious expression. When he swallowed the food, his expression was utterly dumbfounded.

“Come again?”

“I don’t know Quinn,” Eliot repeated, but he couldn’t find the fire to pretend he was offended. “I can tell you how many moles he has on his skin, but I don’t know Quinn!”

“Did you expect to?” Hardison laughed heartily. “That’s rich coming from you! We've known you for six, seven years and you haven’t shared your birthday!”

“You know my D. O. B.”

“Only because you needed your passport updated.” Hardison made a pause to lick the tips of his fingers. “We don’t ask about your past, E. We don’t because we love this version of you. Whatever stain in your soul, that’s between you and a Higher Power, but you have to be a man and own your crimes. The guilt is yours. Quinn didn’t tell you his father is a Nazi and his mother was the pornpraganda star…?”

“She’s _what_?”

“Look, man, my web crawlers have no morals. They found Quinn’s mom behind a paywall,” Hardison began to explain with a moderate tone. “She made some adult firms in the 80s; Interracial porn with pretty racist plots…”

Eliot lost track of Hardison’s explanation because he finally understood the reason behind his confused boner. Was it Lenny’s or Kenneth’s house? Eliot couldn’t pinpoint the detail, but he remembered the basement so full of bric-a-brac that the dozen rowdy boys barely could stand around the old black and white TV and those ancient little cassettes someone had stolen from his father’s sock drawers. Her face haunted Eliot’s wet dreams for years…

“‘A master’s _whim_ ’?”

Hardison looked at him with both his eyebrows raised. Eliot was not sure who of them was more uncomfortable now: he with his memory of his youthful indiscretions or Hardison with his realization of being fetishized for the first time.

“She thought her husband wanted to put you in her bed.”

“Anyways,” Hardison mumbled to take Eliot’s attention from that information. “Those are not Quinn’s crimes and we are learning that because we are thieves and we snoop. You haven’t volunteered a thing in six years; you have no right to demand anything from your boyfriend after a year.”

“A year and a half…”

“Same difference.” Hardison shrugged and picked up a piece of creme fraiche and salmon. “You need to work on your relationship, that’s all I’m saying.”

With those words, Hardison turned to the screen to pay attention to Parker who was too busy trying to figure out how to plug in the device to grant Hardison access.

“By the way, in case you want to scratch that itch,” Hardison said, minding his screen. “There is a surgery record of one Jonas Koehne with the same birthday as our Jonah Quinn in a private German Hospital. A procedure took place on October 16, 1984.”

“What for?”

“Bilateral radical orchiectomy due to testicular cancer,” Hardison replied a bit absentminded. “If that’s our target, his only chance to pass on his genes was his son.”
    
    
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Eliot checked on the shotgun seat and smiled; he has been smiling since he returned to Portland on the red-eye flight. Quinn, a bit thinner and a lot paler, smiled back with his slow, cynical smile. 

For the last quarter of an hour, Eliot had been filling the silence with their plans and the outcomes they had been expecting, hedging around the fact that both of Quinn’s parents had horrible ideologies and acted on them. 

“Parker is on her way to recover your stuff,” Eliot concluded and minded the lights.

As a team, Leverage had decided not to fall for the genetic fallacy and treat Quinn as a guest in their headquarters. Quinn, by the look of it, was just happy to be out of the hospital. Eliot drove in silence the last five blocks, there was no need to say anything else.

Eliot parked at the back of the brewpub, they climbed down. Eliot opened the trunk of his car to retrieve the small bag with Quinn’s personal effects and felt his brow deepening. Quinn walked steadying himself against the car, head held high, dark eyes daring Eliot to say something. Eliot didn’t take the bait. If Quinn wanted to keep his pride, Eliot was not about to steal it from him. Instead, he moved to the door and held it open.

“You brought back my luggage?” Quinn noticed and used the suitcase to keep his vertical.

“It's been waiting for you right there since May,” Eliot mumbled, ashamed because it has never crossed his mind to take it home. “It was a good thing. You need your things here.”

Quinn scoffed and marched forward. Eliot noticed his steps were unsteady, but he was braving on. Eliot wrapped his arm around Quinn’s shoulders and bide his time. The same eight steps from the door to the stair wouldn’t be a challenge for a healthy man, but Quinn’s heart couldn’t bear the exercise.

“I won’t faint.”

“I’m more worried about a heart attack,” Eliot replied and pressed Quinn against his side.

“You are a worrywart.”

“You love me that way.”

Quinn smiled, nodded, and let Eliot lead him to the stairs. Quinn stopped to cough and Eliot worried in silence. The short walk had exacerbated Quinn’s cardiac asthma. His eyes moved to the stairs and gauged how much effort would it demand from Quinn. Then he noticed Quinn’s eyes gauging him.

“I think I can manage,” Quinn mumbled his challenge and started to climb.

Eliot seriously doubted it, because Quinn was already wheezing, but he said nothing. He let Quinn take the first step and hold the rail behind his back, that way if Quinn didn’t have the strength to go on Eliot would be there to catch him. The first step was followed by heavy breathing and the second by more coughing. Eliot stopped him.

“I’ll carry you.”

“Over my dead body…”

“It’s just you and me,” Eliot insisted with a gentle tone, “and I won’t tell.”

Quinn let go of the rail and allowed Eliot to pick him up. Eliot held him close against his chest and Quinn let his head rest on Eliot’s shoulder and wrapped his arm around Eliot’s shoulders.

“Atta, boy!” Eliot mumbled and started to climb up.

 _Don’t worry, Quinn_ , Eliot though, barely noticing his feet touching the treads. _We have set you a bed, it’s cozy. I got you extra pillows because I know you like to be comfortable. Hardison set you up with your own screen and cable. If you're hungry, we can feed you. In our freezer we have borscht for you; I made it from an Internet recipe and Parker thought it was good. All you need to do is ask and I got you covered!_

Eliot landed at the top of the stairs, he waited for a gruff command to let Quinn down, but it didn’t come. Quinn was dozing off, the excitement overwhelming him. Eliot smiled and carried his boyfriend all the way to the bed.
    
    
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Parker and Hardison walked into the small reproductive medicine clinic. The lawyer had sent a courier with the samples to store two weeks ago. The couple was there under the disguise of leaving a deposit, but they were doing a withdrawal instead. They are both dressed in suits, the perfect image of a yuppie couple who had waited too long to start a family. Hardison’s briefcase didn’t raise any suspicions, but Parker’s designer handbag caught some attention from the young fertility technician that greeted them. 

The check-in was simple. Hardison had faked the questionnaire and the doctor’s signature and they even had permission to be both in the donation room with a bogus psychological excuse. This little clinic was chosen because their politics were not exactly compliant with code and Leverage knew how to exploit the situation.

The technician smiled at them and reminded them of the importance of having a sterile sample for the sperm count and wished them good luck. Parker reviewed the collection room, sniggered at the tasteful nudes, and began to shed out her clothes. Hardison nodded and spread out the contents of Parker’s oversized bag. 

They moved to their usual speed, Parker tossed her clothes to the floor and revealed her catsuit. Hardison took out a huge fake thermos that he constructed to hold the loot and passed it to Parker. Parker hung it across her chest with carabiners.

“I need your hand,” Parker said, holding her hair tall to keep it in a ponytail.

“Shouldn’t that be my line, mama?”

Parker gave her one of her confused looks before she signaled the vent above their heads. Hardison smiled and made a step with his hands to hoist her up. Parker disappeared through the narrow AC supply duct. Hardison took out the laptop from his briefcase and ran the hacking program he had ready.

Parker hummed all the way to the storage facility and used some file cabinets as a step to come down to the empty office next to the frozen storage. Hardison smiled and, after checking they had a smooth execution, moved to the next task at hand.

The lock presented no challenge. Parker put on those wonderful gloves Eliot got her for Christmas and walked inside the sterile environment. The tank 1488 sat at the end of the line and she knelt by it. The thermos was disassembled. There was a steel canister surrounded by seals. The top part was liquid nitrogen that would be released after the target was acquired. Inside there were thirty-six clear PETG straws half-filled with white liquid. 

“Is this the real stuff?” Parker asked when she took the fake vials from the canister with metal tweezers.

“No, babe,” Hardison reassured her as he poured a vial of the real stuff he bought on Craigslist into the sample cup. He wouldn’t rub one off during a job; he was a professional. “It’s just starch and water.”

Parker giggled and Hardison noticed the sound of nitrogen escaping the tank. There was a faint clink of metal as Parker retrieved the samples.

“How many straws should they be again?”

“There should be thirty-six aliquots,” Hardison replied as he supervised the information coming to his database.

“There are only thirty,” Parker repeated, counting the frozen straws again as she put them on the thermos. “Where are the rest?”

Hardison consulted his updated information and sighed. Two weeks ago, a cycle of ART took place and there was a record of two separate IUI attempts whatever that meant. “They had been spent. Wrap it up, Parker.”

Parker didn’t comment but the sound of metal against metal as she closed the tank informed Hardison she was on her way out. Hardison made a quick query and got a bit of reassurance to know IUI has less than twenty percent chances of success. He was still fiddling with his phone when Parker called his attention. Marveling on how quick that woman was, he did his best to become a step for her to climb down.

The thermos got shoved inside Parker’s handbag, Hardison’s laptop returned to his briefcase and Parker put on her suit over her work clothes. Hardison smiled and let her hair down. Any thievery made her bloom and she was always her prettiest when she got away with it.

“Flawless, as usual,” Hardison praised and brushed away a strand of her hair from her face.

Parker smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, going for a kiss with the precision she did all her crimes. Hardison willingly gave in to the caress.

The fertility technician found them in close embrace, smirked, and took the sample cup without disturbing them.
    
    
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Eliot leaned on the door jam and looked at Quinn's confused face as Parker displayed her hand. They were taking turns sitting with Quinn because it was never a good idea to crowd someone who needs rest but leaving him to his own devices couldn’t be advisable at the moment. 

The bed was a mess of twisted sheets, chocolate wrappers, and pillows. Parker and Quinn were sitting cross-legged with cards strewn between them. Quinn looked used to Parker’s shenanigans, something Eliot didn’t expect yesterday when he flew to deliver a security briefing to Vance’s office in Washington DC. Quinn’s father was implicated in a series of hinky stuff that could keep Vance and his team busy for a year.

“Pretty,” Quinn admitted after a perfunctory look and folded his cards.

Parker's hand made no sense. Eliot knew Parker was not the sharpest poker player, she just arranged the cards in the more aesthetically pleasing pattern, no matter how many times the rules got quoted. Quinn, to his credit, just smiled and nodded.

“See, this way makes more sense!” Parker exclaimed, dropping her cards. “Pay up!”

Quinn tossed her one of the chocolates Eliot got him. Eliot made a note to talk to Parker about it and walked into the room. Parker, performing the most amazing sleight of hand ever, jumped from the bed, hugged Eliot, and sauntered outside with both of her hands open. Quinn’s jaw was slacking when bent down to kiss Quinn’s cheek

“Hey…” Eliot greeted in a whisper. Quinn smelled like soap and his hair was wet. “How did Parker behave?”

“Same old, same old” Quinn replied and smiled at the caress.

Eliot sat and started picking up the game cards from the blanket and let Quinn talk. The report was pretty noncommittal: Hardison watched Tombstone last night and Parker had been trying to keep him company, she even brought him a burger. Eliot smiled back and looked at the trash can to search for evidence while pretending to get rid of the candy wrappers. Take out, and from her favorite place too, was more than Eliot would have expected from Parker. 

“The buns were glazed donuts,” Quinn complained, but his voice betrayed a hint of amusement.

“Huh?” Eliot shuffled the cards, knowing Quinn had a sweet tooth, but he was also a picky eater. “Are you hungry? I can fix you something quick.”

“No, I ate the damn thing because Parker has the most guilt-inducing Bambi eyes.” Quinn did his best to sit on the bed and he managed to do it without wincing. “I needed a shower after it. She told me I should use this shirt at least once or, perish the thought, I would offend Hardison.”

Quinn said, pointing with both thumbs to the legend on the black fabric: _Due to unforeseen circumstances, dirty deeds are no longer done dirt cheap. Sorry for the inconvenience_. Eliot fought against the burst of laughter because this time the legend was actually pretty funny. Quinn cocked an eyebrow because he was aching to ask the question.

“It’s their way to make you feel welcome,” Eliot explained, putting the set of playing cards next to Quinn’s chocolates. The box was open and, surprisingly, there were still pieces there. “He gave me one that says 'To avoid injury, don’t tell me how to do my job'.”

“Pictures or didn’t happen!” Quinn retorted and extended his hand to take the water bottle.

“You took it off my back _in Prague_!”

Eliot’s tone made Quinn stop with the water bottle midway to his mouth and darted Eliot a confused look. Sitting in that bed, the blankets pooling on his lap and with that damned expression on his face stirred Eliot’s tenderness.

“I assume you were in a hurry to get me naked…” Eliot mumbled and cupped Quinn’s cheek.

“Probably,” Quinn agreed and leaned into the caress while his hand lowered the water bottle.

The temptation was there: Eliot missed Quinn’s mouth. Months had passed—half a year, in fact—since they kissed, but this was not the time. Eliot was still calculating how much damage Quinn had taken and how much his painkillers could hinder Quinn’s ability to give consent when Quinn closed his hand over Eliot’s nape.

“Come on!” Quinn grumbled, so close Eliot could feel how hot his breath was. “I had had the _worst_ two months of my _fucking_ life! I don’t have time for chivalry now!”

A good dozen years before, Eliot almost stepped on a landmine. He only knew when a piece of equipment rolled down his back, bounced on the ground, and then on the mine. The shockwave tossed him forward, concussed him badly; the fall broke a rib and dislocated his wrist; and the rush? Well, the rush got him harder than a rail nail. Quinn’s words had the same effect. 

His whole attention was on Quinn’s tongue, sliding over his; Quinn’s nose caressing his cheek under his right eye, pushing against Eliot like an eager puppy. Eliot let the taste fill his mouth, melting like a piece of praline against his palate. A shiver of delight ran from his lips to his crotch and his hands found a spot on Quinn’s waist to anchor his floating conscience. Quinn sank his teeth on Eliot’s lip for a second before sucking it with hunger, Eliot almost felt him suck his soul through his skin. 

“More,” Quinn demanded with a gasping breath.

The word withered Eliot’s blooming boner. He knew that tone, he knew that hunger and that knowledge broke his heart.

“Stop,” Eliot mumbled and pushed Quinn away with a firm hand. “We need to stop.”

“No!” Quinn pushed himself against Eliot. “He can’t have this too!”

“You are not ready to get back on the horse, Quinn,” Eliot insisted and moved a bit back, away from Quinn. “You are hurting. I don’t care if drugs make you feel better: you're hurting!”

“I’m ready!” Quinn insisted, but tears were gathering in his eyes. “I need this…”

Tears were Eliot’s weakness, he couldn’t stand to see someone he loved to cry. He approached and cupped Quinn’s gaunt cheek with his hand. 

“There was a time, Quinn, when I would have given in to your plea because I get you,” Eliot mumbled. To put it in words was one of the hardest things he'd had to do in a long time. “I get the anger, and the pain, and the _sheer_ fucking _aggravation_ of this kind of assault, but this is not the way. I had to pick up the pieces alone…” 

Eliot felt his lips pursing because that was a lie: Shelley was there for him. Shelley held him close after Kahmard and almost carried Eliot over his back during the next months…. Eliot pushed away from the thought of Shelley in a war zone without him to return the favor. One problem at the time. 

“Well… _almost_ alone. This won’t make it feel better.” 

“I need this,” Quinn repeated and the quick blink of his eyes spilled his tears. “I need to reclaim this body as mine.” His voice got weaker with each word. “He can’t have my body. He can’t steal my pleasure…”

“You will get your pleasure when the time is right,” Eliot whispered and brushed away Quinn’s tears. Of course, Quinn noticed the damage, he was a bright boy. “Good things are coming your way; there is no need to rush it.”

“He can’t have this,” Quinn repeated stubbornly, “I can’t let him steal from you.”

“Hey, hey,” Eliot rushed to cut that thought away. He was a gardener and he could spot weed when he saw one. “You are here. I was sure I was going to lose you, but you fought your way out.” Eliot approached closer and pressed Quinn against his body. “You are here, I want nothing else.”

“I might never…”

“I want nothing else,” Eliot repeated and hugged Quinn as if he wanted to shield him from everything. “Time will tell about your body, but I don’t need anything else as long as there is a Tony Quinn in this world.”

At the sound of his chosen name, Quinn started sobbing and shaking his head, stuck between the Scylla and Charybdis of denial and anger. His hands were clawing at Eliot’s shirt swinging between the urge to hug back and the need to fight. Eliot, steadfast and loyal, held the storm between his arms.

“I want nothing else,” Eliot repeated, sure that he would need to repeat that many times before it pierced the block between Quinn’s ears, but he was a patient man.
    
    
      .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-.   .-.-
     / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \ \ / / \
    `-'   `-`-'   `-`-'   `-`-'   `-`-'   `-`-'   `-`-'   `-`-'

They were having a pizza party/movie night because what else could they do. The stolen property was safely kept in another storage, the revenge was in hands of the authorities and the Leverage team had a guest. Their guest couldn’t partake of the pie—doctors had docked his salt intake—but if Eliot ever knew of someone always ready for a movie, it was Quinn.

“I must say, I mean, I must say…” Hardison mumbled between bites of his pizza.

“Just say it, Hardison!” Eliot grumbled and passed him a napkin.

“I was surprised to know about the last letters of your name,” Hardison insisted and put the salt shaker on the little table over Quinn’s legs.

“Because they are ‘nn’?” joked Quinn while he dropped a huge dollop of sour cream to his borscht. 

“HA-ha. Not funny.” Hardison stopped to wipe his mouth. “I meant the I and the V.”

Parker had begun to laugh at the joke until she noticed Hardison’s reaction, then she turned to Eliot in search of an explanation.

“People usually don’t name family after three,” Elliot explained and caught the dripping cheese with his fingers. “Grandpa, dad, and son. It’s pretty rare you have four generations alive at the same time.”

“I’m, in fact, the fifth generation, but the first one was Koehne.”

“You are talking about Jonas Koehne,” Eliot said, pointing at the dish. “Eat.”

“Yup.” Quinn stirred the soup. “My illustrious ancestor.” 

“I still don’t get it.”

“Koehne was a war criminal,” Eliot explained Parker, still struggling with his slice. “He worked international affairs, but he was mostly involved with the Ahnenerbe.”

“The bunch of idiots who invented the Aryan race,” Quinn interjected and extended his hand toward the salt shaker. “That’s why we changed the spelling.”

“The US Government kidnapped Jonas Koehne after the fall of Berlin and annexed him to Operation Paperclip,” Hardison explained. “I don’t know why since he's not scientific…”

“Diplomacy is a science,” Eliot grumbled and put the salt shaker next to the Easter egg display, away from Quinn.

“They let him stay because he was a familiar face in international affairs after the war,” Quinn explained and took a bit of his food. “They kept my great grandfather and my grandfather in prison to keep him on a leash at least until they handed him to the Mossad.” Quinn shrugged like he was not talking about matters of great importance. “Also, he was the guardian of The Vault.”

“What vault?”

“The Vault inside that bank in Sweden,” Quinn replied, more interested in his dish than in the discussion. “The one with the DNA samples, and the genealogical archives, and the stolen art and the metric tonne of gold stamped with the Irminsul.” Quinn shrugged again. “The Vault.”

Hardison looked at Quinn with incredulity, Eliot stopped with a slice of pizza between the teeth, and Parker’s jaw hung at the sound of the words ‘a metric tonne of gold’.

“Have you been there?” Parker asked and her voice trembled a little with the thrill of a new vault to break. 

Quinn nodded and took a spoonful of his beet soup.

“Most boring place on Earth,” Quinn raised his eyebrows in appreciation. Eliot felt proud of his beet soup. “I was five when he took me there to have my retina and my fingertips scanned. And we always spend my birthdays there, hearing about my sworn duty to keep it all for the _Viertes Reich_ ’s glory.”

“Fourth Reich?” Parker asked in confusion.

“Do you speak German?”

“Sworn duty?!”

“I was five!” Quinn excused himself and quickly put another spoonful in his mouth.

“ _Ja!_ ” Parker stuffed her slice inside her mouth.

Eliot knew he better stop badgering Quinn because that was a sore issue. Hardison, on the other hand...

“I’m going to ask a question, and you don’t need to answer, but I’d really like to know.”

“Shoot.”

“Can he roll back your permissions?”

Quinn smiled quickly, widely, and rather wickedly: “Over my dead body.”

That information clarified a lot of the plot: the unmanageable, sworn guardian of The Vault needed replacement; the contents were unreachable unless a proper substitute could be sworn after Quinn’s death. Parker felt the rush when the last piece fell into place so neatly and she was dancing in her place. By saving Quinn they all had dealt the worst hit to this decades-long plan; Eliot began to feel giddy. Hardison, smiling from ear to ear, turned on the screen.

“What are we going to watch?” Parker asked and hoarded half of Quinn’s pillows.

“I was thinking of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but…”

“I love that movie!” Quinn exclaimed and extended his hand toward the salt shaker.

“Who the hell doesn't?” Eliot replied and took the salt shaker even further away.


	2. Epilogue

“Open your mouth!” Eliot’s sharp voice traveled through the walls.

Hardison heard Eliot’s cry and woke up with a start. Parker was already running to the guest room. There were some thuds against the wall, loud enough to be worrisome. Hardison pulled his pants from the hamper and ran out of their room.

“Swallow it, dammit!” Eliot roared before a heavy thud made the wall shake.

Parker slid on the floor, a lockpick already on her hand, summoned from God knows where. Hardison, still struggling to get into his pants watched as Parker unlocked the door. Inside the room, Eliot held Quinn in an awkward submission hold with one arm. 

At the sound of the opening door, Quinn turned sharply and lost his balance, dragging Eliot down. Hardison had time to watch Eliot’s fist gripping Quinn’s arm as his other arm extended forward and his hand opened to break the fall. From Eliot’s open hand, a bright orange capsule escaped. It bounced twice before stopping, swirling, at Parker’s feet. 

“Dammit, Quinn!” Eliot groaned, twisting Quinn’s arm between his shoulder blades.

“What’s this?” Parker picked up the capsule with curiosity. 

“Is that a dawn horn?” Quinn asked, groaning and smiling at the same time, under Eliot’s weight.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like!” Eliot screamed and extended his hand toward Parker without minding Quinn’s question. “Give me that!” 

“What is it?” Parker repeated as she handed over the unit.

“His heart medicine,” Eliot replied, picked the medicine, and moved it to Quinn’s mouth. “Swallow!”

“It’s dirty!” Quinn protested with his face pressed against the floor.

“I know what you put in your mouth!” Eliot protested and forced the small medicine against Quinn’s face. “Now, swallow!”

With a deep sigh, Quinn allowed Eliot to feed him the pill; Eliot sighed too, but he held his position for half a minute. Hardison was not used to seeing defeat on any hitters face and seeing in two at once was baffling. Parker picked up Quinn when Eliot got up without sparing a second glance at his boyfriend. 

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Eliot announced as he passed by Hardison. “Behave, you brat!”

“Everything’s right, man?” Hardison got inside the room. 

Quinn looked at him with a bit of distrust, but then he nodded without a word. Parker looked at Hardison with the worded question of what the fresh hell was wrong with Eliot. Hardison was asking the same question and they just had a job with too many questions. Parker was helping Quinn to return to the bed, Hardison could have a word with Eliot.

Barefooted, Hardison moved briskly toward the restaurant. As soon as he opened the door he noticed Eliot was working already on the stove: The smell of hot metal and the sound of open burners roaring warned him to tread carefully. Eliot was in a bad mood. 

“I know Quinn’s being a brat,” Eliot said before Hardison could get a word in, “but he’s _my_ brat. The person I can spoil and bicker with, I never figured I had to explain that to you!” Eliot exclaimed as he put some strips of bacon on the hot skillet. “And he’s acting up because he didn’t want me to think he’s not the same strong-headed, able man I want so bad.”

“Is he, though?” Hardison pulled a chair to watch the show. Eliot was always more chatty with a knife in his hand.

“He’s not, but he will be,” Eliot replied and adjusted the heat of the burner. “You can’t do this job if you're not able to bounce back from a beating… even a beating as bad as the one he took.” Eliot stopped to pour a squirt of oil on a pan. “Quinn’s feeling a lot better if he’s able to pull that stun.”

“So, what’s the plan, man?”

“Huh?” Eliot mumbled and pointed at Hardison with an egg in his hand. 

“Yes, please,” Hardison replied to the implied question. No way in hell he will turn his nose up to one of Eliot’s omelets. “What are you—you and Quinn—going to do now?”

“Shouldn’t our mastermind be the one asking these questions?” Eliot asked and didn’t even pay attention as he cracked half a dozen eggs in a bowl.

“She’s too busy conning your boyfriend out of his fancy chocolates.”

Eliot chuckled and used the time it took him to whisk the eggs to think. Hardison could see the way Eliot’s brow knotted, his eyes squinted and his lips twisted as he shuffled his options. Hardison let him be, Eliot would get there.

“What is there to do? If there's nothing too urgent, I’ll nurse him back to health.” Eliot poured a ladleful of whisked eggs in a hot pan. “Cook him some good food to speed up the process.” Grated cheese was added to the egg; Hardison wasn't sure if Eliot’s idea of good food was the right one. “Take him to the gym to work out his frustrations and maybe to Oklahoma to fish…” 

“Your uncle would love Quinn,” Hardison interrupted with a smile. Eliot would never admit that it wasn't fishing that he was looking for in Oklahoma.

“And when he starts to feel restless,” Eliot continued as if Hardison hadn’t added a word as he filled the egg with chopped vegetables. “I’ll put a good word for him with some brokers I’ve kept in touch…” 

Hardison lined up a couple of trays. Eliot plated the omelet and immediately poured another ladleful before adding a couple of strips of bacon next to it. Hardison noticed Eliot was working on Parker’s breakfast because the next omelet was wrapped without vegetables. 

“What’s the hurry, man?” 

"I want him gone, ok?” Eliot grumbled as he plated Parker’s omelet with its side of bacon. “Quinn’s happy doing his work and I want him to be happy!”

Eliot stopped talking to mind the two eggs in his hand. He deftly separated the yolks and put them aside, no oil in the pan and no seasoning. This omelet Hardison let Eliot work in silence because he knew his hitter, he knew Eliot was reaching his personal epiphany. 

“If this is a taste of our life together,” Eliot finally said, putting the special omelet in the tray with care. “I can really wait until both of us get tired of throwing punches, you know?”

Hardison knew that wasn’t the truth, but there was no way in hell he would pry further into that relationship. As Eliot mixed the two yolks with the rest of the vegetables and cheese, Hardison realized just how deep Eliot had fallen, how scared he was of the depths, and how much he would have to work to get where he wanted to be.

Oh, their hitter was in love and was willing to go balls to the wall for it. It was a good thing, Hardison thought, that Eliot Spencer was not scared of hard work.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank heartsinger and Chesh_of_the_Shire from Discord who spend hours to make this fic readable.


End file.
